Street Freaks
by Taluliaka
Summary: The Joker grinned. 'Let me guess. 'Quoth the raven, 'Nevermore'. Disillusioned and solitary, another painted freak enters Gotham, and sparks a war that shakes the city to her foundations. Crossover with 'The Crow'.
1. Prologue: The Shadows Breathe

_Well it's almost Christmas, and I said to myself, you don't have a job, HSC's over, you're sitting in front of the computer, if you don't get SOMETHING out before the New Year, you're useless._

_I know it says on my profile that I was going to post a HoND story, and it is in the works, but I'm running into historical complications, and it's just not gonna fly at the moment._

_In the meanwhile, a new plot bunny came and bit me when I bought the movie 'The Crow' on a whim, and it combined with a video on YouTube called 'The Joker vs The Crow' by SilverLightsaber gave birth to this story._

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**Disclaimer: **I solemnly swear that I don't own either 'The Crow' or 'The Dark Knight', or have any rights except fan rights to the late lamented Heath Ledger and Brandon Lee.

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_And so, without further ado,_

_Welcome to,_

**Street Freaks**

_**Prologue**_

~Don't look, don't look, the shadows breathe~

'_Burn' –The Cure_

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I hold her behind my eyelids, complete.

The ghosting touch of her fingers, the soft perfume of her hair.

Her smile that came as if from behind glass, and all I had to do was smash what lay between us to touch her again.

The grating caw from behind brings me back with a jolt, and her form is flung to the wind, shattered into pieces that draw blood when I reach for them, that turn to pumpkin shards and crimson light and the shock of bullets, and the surprising warmth of blood on my skin as I fall, with the wind shrieking away Shelly's sobs.

Claws dig into my shoulder, and feathers brush my cheek.

The cemetery blurs into focus, then crushes into tiny dancing squares, and I blink back tears, trying to swallow the ache in my throat.

The crow plucks busily at the frayed material on my shoulder, purpled with old blood, rasping in its throat.

"Why can't I die?"

I address the crow, because he's the only one who has any _fucking_ idea what's going on. I can feel the pinpricks of his claws as he shifts his weight, a warm and living presence huddled against my ear. He acts like a real bird, so much so that even I'm taken in sometimes, how he scrambles after cockroaches to crack their shells, but he survived a shot that would kill most men, and he knew where to find T-Bird and Skank and their little gang of mobsters.

And I can see through his eyes sometimes.

My hands are ice, and lie uselessly by my sides, and I can feel the loose soil shift in the creases of my fingers.

I lean back against _her_ headstone, and shiver.

I'm alive, when I was so sure I was dead.

And he can be the only reason.

The reason I couldn't touch Shelly again.

I lunge with both hands, grabbing for him, wanting so very _very _badly to wring his neck, and end this meaningless _joke _of a life I have.

But he's already let out an insulted shriek and taken off, claws drawing blood in his haste, wings slapping the air clumsily until he gains height, and I watch the dark shape circle against the empty sky.

He knows what I'm thinking.

_The fucker._

"I'll shoot you down, you bastard!"

He banks sharply, and screams at me, and I'm too tired to get up and this is all just too _funny_. So I laugh instead, and it bounces off the graves. All the night seems stilled in shock, that I would dare sit on holy ground and mock death itself.

But I can, and I will, because the dead can't hear me, one lost soul leaning on a grave, laughing fit to _wake the dead_.

If only I could be so lucky.

* * *

Already the bullets are releasing me, one cold in my lap where the skin has pushed it free, and the slash in my belly is numb. Soon they'll close over, I know. In a year they'll probably just be white scars, seen out of the corner of an eye or when the light hits a mirror just right, and I'll pause and remember the time I got stabbed by a _fucking mobster with a samurai sword._

'_Every man's got a devil,' _he told me, and his smile had too many teeth in it to be natural.

I look up and catch a glimpse of feathers as the crow settles into a tree, just one more dark shadow amongst the branches.

"You're my devil." I call to him.

"Like the poem, _prophet still, if bird or devil_…"

He drops out of the night onto my shoulder, shaking rain caught in the trees over me. He peers at me hard with his closest eye, and I can see the intelligence there.

"You'll always be there, won't you, _just above my chamber door_."

He rasps low in his throat, and affectionately plucks strands of my hair, beak clicking softly as he preens through them.

The rain begins again as I shovel the soil back into the grave, my grave, patting it down, all smooth and flat. There's a certain peace I feel when I'm working with my hands. It's always been that way, which is why I love guitar so much. It was always a pressure valve for me, working on songs for the band, or for Shelly.

I was writing one, a guitar piece, for our wedding…

But that was in another life, and I was another person.

_A _person.

I'm reminded, irresistibly, as I shape the rounded edges just so, of a child playing in a sandpit, which brings a smile to my face that feels all wrong. It sits like a snarl, and makes my cheeks ache, and the makeup cracks and shifts from the unnatural position. It would be a sordid playground indeed, where murderers sit and shape their graves, most probably one where toys are scattered body parts and war games are played with real bullets and real blades.

I bury what I was in that grave, some foolish shade that believed it would end here, who kissed a ghost and saw _her_, who had hope.

I bury Eric Draven with due reverence and ceremony, while the crow wheels above, and leave hollow, brushing my stained hands together, staggering over the uneven ground, and feeling the edges of my wounds burn with the strain.

_Don't look back, look back, _beat the wings of my companion, so I don't.

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**Author's Notes: **_ Just wanted to say a few little things that might be of interest to people. Number one, being the title, which is a phrase used in 'The Crow' by a pawnbroker called Gideon to describe the criminal component of Detroit, including in that description Eric, who isn't exactly pleased and who reacts by blowing up his business. It can also be used, I think, as an apt description of the inhabitants of Gotham's underworld, and of the Joker himself. Number two, the poem Eric mentions, which is of course Sir Edgar Allen Poe's 'The Raven', which he also quotes in the movie. Number three, the song lyrics at the beginning, which I'm using as a way to shape or map where this story is going, and is also used as Eric's theme in the movie._

So after all that, I conclude by saying I'm glad to be back, having finally gotten over the end of exams, and my own considerable ability to procrastinate, and I'm interested in the response this will get. I promise my work ethic has changed, and I'm in my new works for the long run and till the bitter end.

Love,

**Taluliaka**


	2. Chapter 1: Whispering Me Away

**Disclaimer: **I solemnly swear that I don't own either 'The Crow' or 'The Dark Knight', or have any rights except fan rights to the late lamented Heath Ledger and Brandon Lee.

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**Street Freaks**

_**Chapter 1**_

~Whispering me away from you~

'_Burn' –The Cure_

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I enter Albrecht's apartment in the usual way; feet first through the window.

I have to jimmy it open, which annoys me, even though he can't know that I'm not six feet under, and slipping around on his window ledge in the rain.

He's back from the hospital already, dozing in an armchair in his tiny lounge room, and the television murmurs questioningly about the disappearance of the painted vigilante and the bodies that clutter up the church. His right arm is bound up in a sling, and I can see the wad of gauze on his shoulder where his shirt parts at the neck.

I throw myself down on the long lounge, feeling water from my clothes soak into the fabric. I dump my bag on the floor, and it rattles with the unseen weight of my makeup tins, the shredded leather outfit, a singed and ancient first aid kit, and a few photographs of Shelly I couldn't leave to the fire.

I can hear sirens wailing far away, and my handiwork tinges the horizon a burnt orange.

Albrecht snorts himself awake, and blinks in surprise at me.

"Eric?"

I attempt a smile, and scrape my hands across the cracking expanse of my face. Half of it was lost on the way over in the downpour.

I really need to find waterproof paints.

Albrecht, the bright spark that he is, notices my quandary, and points out the sink. As I duck my head under the flow, I hear him rise, groaning.

He holds back his questions until I'm finished, and I slick my hair back against my head, taming temporarily the scraggly pieces that hang in my eyes.

"Eric, what's happening? I thought you…well, _died_. Again."

Over his shoulder, I watch the crow flap through the window, his feathers glazed with rain under the lights.

"Turns out I'm hard to kill."

Another wave of annoyance washes over me at his confusion. I don't _want_ to explain this.

I don't even understand it myself.

I brace one hand on the window I entered by, and watch the smoke blur the sky. It's almost cathartic, watching the Loft burn.

"I'm leaving."

He comes up beside me, pauses at the sight of the fiery sky, and I drop my hand.

"It's the Loft."

He doesn't respond, and I think he's grown to accept a lot of things from me. It's hard to ask for a painted dead vigilante to justify his actions to you, particularly when I can tell he doesn't want to hear the answers.

"Have you told Sarah?"

I avoid his gaze, and shake off the guilt. I'm not optimistic enough to believe that my little intervention with Darla is enough to keep her from the long, slippery slide back to addiction, but Sarah's a tough kid. She's a survivor.

* * *

He holds a coffee under my nose. I don't remember him making it. How often do I lose chunks of time like that?

We sit down, like two old friends, and the crow sharpens his beak on the back of a chair.

"Admetus took her the ring. She understands I can't stay with her."

"Who's Admetus?"

I nod my head towards the bird.

"I figured if we were going to be together for eternity, I had to give him a name."

"What does it mean?"

"Admetus was a king in Greek mythology. He tries to cheat his death by sending someone in his place, so his wife Alcestis sacrifices herself and goes to the Underworld for him. After her death, Admetus realises he doesn't want to live, and thinks his wife's fate is a happier one, because she is beyond pain and ended her life with glory. _'But I who have escaped my fate and ought not to be alive, shall now live out my life in sorrow.'"_

I've always liked history. That every place had a story, even this broken city. I chose the Loft because of its history, the sweep of its arches that reminded me of Gothic cathedrals and ancient monks gone to dust.

His eyes soften, and impatience heaves a breath from me. I don't _want_ his pity.

"I need your help."

He flashes a grin at me. "Does it involve getting shot?"

The laugh chokes itself out of me. God, why does it feel so wrong when I smile?

"No. I just…I need access to our trust fund, Albrecht. I need money if I'm going to live somewhere."

He sits back in contemplation.

"It's not like I can walk up there in my own person, and withdraw it."

The fund was for us when we married. Shelly and I always put some of our earnings in there, dreaming of the day we would be able to use it for our family. Some tiny faceless baby I will never know now.

"I'll leave most of it in Sarah's name, for her education. Or in case…"

_In case her junkie mother has a bad hit._

"Say you're acting in my last interests. Move the money to another account, under my name."

He's scribbling down my instructions, and peers at me from where he's hunched over the low table.

"What name would that be?"

"Eric Crow."

He sends me a sharp glance, like something's rung false. Like he knows I buried Eric Draven forever.

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Admetus raises his wings and caws at me, his claws skittering over the polished wood.

_Time to go._

I stand to leave, and he stands with me, regret written in his face.

Since he met, he seems to have aged twenty years.

"Well, good luck, Eric." He offers me his hand, and I take it.

"You know, you saved this city. You brought down the whole criminal element. We can clean up the streets now. Sarah can grow up in a better world, because of you."

He catches my eye, and speaks with a frankness that embarrasses me, mostly because my motives were purely selfish, and my cleansing of the streets was just a side effect of having my revenge.

So I look him square in the eye back, and let the mask drop.

"I didn't do it for her."

He drops my hand, and his eyes fall away.

_There._ He sees me now.

I grab my bag, and follow Admetus through the window. It doesn't occur to me to use the door. That was from another life.

I grab the ledge above, and pull myself into a slow flip that drags at my wounds until my feet hit the cement of the roof. From below, I hear Albrecht's voice ring out through the darkness and the rain.

"Where will you go?"

I stay crouched where I am, and consider.

The sky is dark again, and a few blocks away my old home is smouldering ashes.

I've broken the last tie.

Admetus croaks above me, invisible.

"Gotham. I'll head to Gotham."

I hear the window below me close, and I turn my head to my jagged path of aerials and concrete and the blank spaces between buildings.

A path of the gods, while below insects crawl on the streets.

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**Author's Notes: **_ Just one thing this time. The bit Eric quotes about Admetus is from an ancient Greek play by Euripedes called 'Alcestis'._

_I hope people are enjoying this. I know I've got hits, so thanks to those who are reading, even if they don't review. And many thanks to BrilliantInsanity, my first reviewer!  
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_Next chapter, Gotham! (And the Joker)._

Love,

**Taluliaka**


	3. Chapter 2: Watch Her Sleep

_I'm trying to get as many chapters out as I can before I go away, so here's another. And on the same day as my last post! I must be ill. Or crazy. Either one._

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**Disclaimer: **I solemnly swear that I don't own either 'The Crow' or 'The Dark Knight', or have any rights except fan rights to the late lamented Heath Ledger and Brandon Lee.

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**Street Freaks**

_**Chapter 2**_

~Don't wake at night to watch her sleep~

'_Burn' –The Cure_

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Somebody should tell this guy that the words 'taxi driver' and 'tour guide' aren't synonymous.

He literally hasn't closed his mouth since I got in.

I'm tired, I'm wet, because in accordance with my shitty luck, it happens to be _raining _my first day in Gotham, and I'm in no mood to play 20 Questions with a guy whose last meal consisted mainly of garlic.

I _hate_ garlic.

"It's kinda weird, ya know, you moving to Gotham, when most people are trying to get out? I mean like, with the Joker outta Arkham, most sane people are getting the fuck outta here. Where you from again?"

"New Detroit."

"Oh yeah. I heard some mobsters got screwed up that way. That this lunatic took them out, right, alone, and now the police can't find him. Maybe I should move out that way, 'cause this fucking city's just getting worse, you know?"

I watch the streetlamps roll by, their oily light smudging the window.

"The Joker blew up Gotham General, you know, and I'm thinking, like what's sacred anymore? Y'know, like what's gonna stop him coming after me next, man? It's fucked up, that's what it is."

"He got something against sick people?"

"Nah, he's a maniac man. He's like, seriously unhinged. He killed the fucking Police Commisioner for Christ's sake! What's stopping him from coming after little guys like us…"

I tune him out, rolling my eyes.

He obviously has _no_ idea what makes this guy tick.

I've been inside Gotham's city limits for half an hour, and I've already worked out the Joker.

I catch a dark blot across the dawn sky out the window. Admetus. It's lucky he didn't join me, or I'd have had to kill the driver before my ears exploded.

I focus back on our 'conversation'.

"Maybe he'll target taxi drivers next, y'know, no-one does checks on these piece a' shit cars anymore, someone could strap a bomb easily to the bottom, and I wouldn't fucking even guess until KABLAM!"

"What did he want, though?"

"And…what?" I've broken into his little pity-fest and apparently thrown him off guard. I despise people like him. So stuck in their little worlds, thinking everyone's out to get them. Thinking death's the _worst _thing that can ever happen.

"What was the purpose of blowing up a hospital? What did he _want_?"

"Uh….he wanted…he wanted the Batman to reveal his identity, y'know, tell everyone who he was. But he's a fucking maniac, that guy. People like that don't _need _a reason."

I explain as patiently as I can. "Well, if his beef's with the Batman, you're safe. Why would he bother killing a taxi driver?"

It goes straight over his head, of course, and I have to listen for the next five minutes to a list of reasons why this Joker person would target taxi drivers.

He's begging to be killed. He's actually starting to convince me that he should die.

It'd be a service to the community, really, to put his head through the window as we go through a tunnel.

The taxi lurches forward, and I eye the sprawling rows of houses passing outside.

"Where are we?"

"Worst neighbourhood we got. The Narrows. Why the fuck you think I'm going so fast?"

"Stop. Let me off here."

He turns his head all the way around to stare at me, bald head shiny with sweat, muddy eyes stretched wide with fear.

"You got problems kid? You'll be ten kinds a' fucked up if I drop ya here."

It would be so easy to snap his neck. _So easy_.

"Just _do _it."

He's still yelling at me out the window as he pulls away, and I catch a last glimpse of his horrified eyes between the seats. Then he's gone, fishtailing away down the road, leaving a stench of burned rubber.

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It's 10 am by the time I manage to secure a room, in a block of apartments that give a lovely view over the docklands, and into several seedy alleyways. The bed's cover is stained yellow, and the taps don't work in the bathroom. The first thing I check is the window, which has a broad ledge, and faces onto a wall, which is good for getting in and out without being noticed by the wrong people. I lever it open, and Admetus swoops through, landing on the neck of a lamp that bends like a dead tree to the floor.

The only thing that's going to illuminate are the cracks in the floorboards.

I dump my bag on the only chair in the room, tear the cover off the bed, dump it in a corner, pull off my shirt and fall forward onto the mattress.

Something crunches and it drops a few inches, which just shows the quality of the place I'm in.

I close my eyes.

* * *

_I roll over to meet her smile, her hair flung over the pillows._

_She laughs at me, and fights to keep the covers as I tug them, pulling them up until only her sweet brown eyes shine at me._

_I pull them away, and lean in to kiss her…_

_And open my eyes to find a corpse, eyes blank, mouth lolling grotesquely, one eye swollen nearly shut, blood on the pillows._

"_Shelly!"_

_I shake her and she gasps a wet bloody breath, a rattle I can feel up her throat…_

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"SHELLY!"

I open my eyes to blinding light, and Admetus' screech.

I can't stop shaking, can't get up, and I fall from the mattress to lie shivering on the floor.

Admetus is attacking me, claws scratching over my bare chest, beak stabbing my neck and face, and every breath I take is painful as my body twists on the floor.

There's such a pain in my gut that I bend involuntarily into a circle, banging my head hard against my knees, fingernails drawing blood across my shoulders. I feel warmth as the slash in my stomach bleeds from the position.

Everything hurts and I can't breathe, and everything flashes white- black-red in front of my eyes.

Admetus' beak stabs above my eye, and the blood blinds me. His wings batter my head, and I roll, choking, to my side, to escape him.

I snatch a breath, and then another, like a drug addict, needing more.

The pain is lessening, ebbing, and I drag in air as I uncurl slowly, hands aching from the strength of my grip, shoulders throbbing.

I manage a true, deep breath, and see, sideways, Admetus return, ruffling his feathers, to the lamp.

It takes several minutes for me to work up the strength to crawl to my bag, pull out the late Tin-Tin's filthy leather jacket, and pull my aching arms through the sleeves.

I brace my back against the bed, and just breathe for a moment, watching my hands shake in the long bands of afternoon sunlight striping the floor.

That's never happened before. I can still see Shelly's corpse-face in my mind, and bile licks my throat.

I need a drink. I need it _now_.

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**Author's Notes: **_ Well okay, the Joker wasn't technically present. But he was spoken of! I actually was going to introduce him in this chapter, but then that dream-reaction bit kind of wrote itself. Next chapter, I swear it._

Love,

**Taluliaka**


	4. Chapter 3: You Will Always See

_Well, it's Christmas Eve today, so Merry Christmas everyone for tomorrow! I probably won't get another chance to update for a while, because I'm going away after Christmas, so I decided to post one today. I'd like to thank Shallots and Slightly Obssessive, who reviewed me, your comments are greatly uplifting. I'd like to give a special thanks to Slightly, who's reviewed me consistently throughout the three chapters, and is just awesome._

_I've noticed that I've had 79 hits to this story, but only 5 reviews. Come on guys, it only takes a second to review and tell me what you think. You can even do it anonymously, which is how I personally like to review. _

_ And I recommend 'The Crow' as an amazing watching experience, to those who aren't familiar with it. It's in parts on YouTube._

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**Disclaimer: **I solemnly swear that I don't own either 'The Crow' or 'The Dark Knight', or have any rights except fan rights to the late lamented Heath Ledger and Brandon Lee.

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**Street Freaks**

_**Chapter 3**_

~You know that you will always see,

this trembling, adored, tousled, bird-mad girl~

'_Burn' –The Cure_

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The sun is dying by the time I hit the streets of Gotham.

I'm looking for a bottle shop, but find instead a drycleaners, where I drop off my Crow guise.

The girl behind the counter can't be older than 18, and she's too busy blushing to pick apart the flaws of my hastily-constructed story as to why my clothes are covered in bullet holes and bloodstains.

Eager to help, she directs me not only to the nearest place to find alcohol, but also a general store, a burger shop, a laundry and the local club with the dubious name of 'Bruiser'. She also points out the bank, a run-down, one-storey building where the clerk looks me over with a suspicious eye, and grudgingly hands me over a wad of cash.

As the streets darken, I notice the gangs forming, the all too-causal grouping of young men, dragging from their glowing cigarettes, casting sharp glances over me as I pass, and the sinister, slouching figures of lone dealers, the slinking gait of petty thieves, the weary tread of a prostitute on her way to a thankless night's work, the screech of cars in the dusk, and the noises that float up from the streets like smoke, screams and curses and drunken laughter.

I avoid the gathering figures, I'm not out to meet these creatures of the night, or learn new rules for the Narrows playground.

I just want to find some booze and a lonely rooftop to forget on.

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It's dark before I'm ready to face the Narrows again. The largest bottle of whisky I could find is sitting on the rickety, sagging table in the area that could be loosely labeled as a kitchen. I'm standing in front of the only mirror, putting on my face, because I figure I'm less likely to be bothered if I look as least as menacing as the people already out there.

White first, rubbed all over my face, covering the lines and freckles thickly, until I glow in the gloom of my apartment.

Then black, into the hollows of the eyes, and dragged to dagger-points on my forehead and my cheeks.

I blacken out my lips, and then draw outwards, the sad, sinister smile of a mask.

I pause, and stare at my reflection.

Someone else stares back.

What had Albrecht called me?

_A mime from hell._

I can't see it myself personally.

I see a face that can't decide whether to smile or to cry, to forgive or to murder.

A face to fear, because there's nothing human to appeal to under that mask.

Nothing but death.

I drag on Tin-Tin's jacket, gather up the bottle, and gingerly poke the wound on my stomach to see if it's up for some acrobatics. The scratches from Admetus have already faded, and under the gauze on my torso the wound's stopped bleeding.

Still, I'm careful during my exit from the window. I want this to heal as quickly as possible, so if I do run into any trouble, I can have faith my body will react the way it used to. I follow Admetus, jogging slowly, over the rooftops, whisky clinking in one of the deep pockets of my coat.

* * *

Up ahead, Admetus lands and hunches on an aerial, so I walk to the edge of the roof, and let my feet dangle. He's selected a view over the main street, honeycombed with alleys, and back streets, and I watch the nocturnal activities of the Narrows' inhabitants with interest as I open the bottle.

Two milling groups of dark shades have collided, and I can hear a fight commencing. I take a swig, feel the alcohol burn a path to my stomach, and listen to the bellows, shrieks, curses, the metal shrill of blades, and finally, the decisive muffled bang of a silenced revolver putting an end to the scuffle. The survivors wander off towards the Bruiser, or off into darkness talking and laughing, and I shake my head.

What a fucked-up place I've come to.

I take another drink, and choke as it hits the wrong tube.

It's cured soon enough though, by another drink.

And another.

And another.

The moon's shifted in the sky, and peeks out from behind a building, silvering its broken windows. Half of the whisky is gone, and I've come to a very unpleasant realisation.

I can taste the alcohol, and feel it hit my gut, but nothing's happening.

I'm as sober as I was when I arrived, and the nightmare still lurks in the back of my mind, ready to ambush me. It seems being dead has more complications than just eternal life.

I don't _want_ to remember Shelly that way, a bleeding, dying broken thing heaving out her life on our bed while I watch helplessly.

I take another drink automatically before remembering that it's not doing a fucking _thing_, and I smash it viciously on the cement.

Shards of glass and whisky fly everywhere, and I listen to some larger pieces tinkle as they land on the street.

I still have the neck though, a deadly point cracked out in its separation, and I drag it across my palm.

I ignore Admetus' screech and watch as the blood pools in my palm for a moment like black water, then oozes away as the cut heals itself. Only a stain remains, and I'm reminded of my first night back in the Loft, grieving and half-crazy, where I re-lived Devil's Night, and punctured both my hands to prevent a repeat of my swan dive through the window.

I roll the neck of the bottle loosely in one hand, and watch the purple-black sky loom overhead, trying very hard not to think of anything at all.

* * *

Admetus screeches again, and behind his cry, I hear a louder sound.

A crunch, like rock hitting concrete, behind me.

I whirl in surprise, halfway up by the time my brain catches up with my reflexes, to see a great black shape behind me, silhouetted against the darkling sky.

The figure is an immense size, and I make out the curves of a cape encircling it, and two protrusions on the darkly cowled head.

I can feel the weight of eyes coming out of that shadow, and their intensity makes me shiver.

I take a step back, onto the ledge, ready to jump at any movement. I'm not a coward, but I don't want to face this guy on his terms, on the edge of a roof, in the middle of the night, without knowing who the hell he is.

He speaks like a dog growling, a gritty rasp of a voice that distorts his words, and it just adds to that delightful mixture of menace and oddity that surrounds him.

"_Who are you?_"

Now I could stay and talk to him, or I _could_…

Admetus takes off and without hesitation I step backwards off the roof.

I land hard, take the worst of the force on my shoulder as I roll, and am up and charging away within seconds, feeling the wrenched muscle repairing itself.

I follow Admetus through a tangle of streets, running flat-out, dodging the occasional anonymous figure, and finally sink down behind a dumpster, gasping for air, while Admetus fidgets on the edge of it, raising and lowering his wings in agitation.

I guess we lost him, and I let out the breath I've been holding painfully in my chest in case I need to get up, and then there's a whoosh above us, and I look up in time to see the great black shape glide over our alley to the next rooftop.

I wait, but he doesn't return, and I sit down properly with a relieved sigh, pushing my legs out in front of me.

Now that was just fucking _creepy_.

* * *

The world goes purple-grey for a moment, as Admetus' disorientating vision slides over my eyes like a sheath, showing me the sharp-cut, swinging bulk of a door opening out of the wall. I blink it away with difficulty, and I hear him take off as purple and black dots bloom behind my eyes.

A few minutes pass, and I hear a door slam, and two sets of boots coming along the alley towards me, two men, muttering to each other. Instinctively, I sink my head down, like a drunk, and wait for them to leave. But one pauses, and kicks my ankle.

"Hey get the hell out of here, would ya? The Joker don't take kindly to hobos on his territory."

The other man doesn't speak, just breathes heavily.

I raise my head to look at them, and they both step back with the sharp movement that gives away fear.

The talkative one gets over his shock fast, and I hear a barrage of disbelieving questions leveled at me about my level of sanity. The other, bulky and foreign, I'm judging, by his silence, just crushes a smoke beneath his boot with the air of a man who sees a threat to be removed. He's probably Russian. They make decisions with very little fuss, and on very little evidence, and they're good killers.

"Are you fucking insane, man? Are you high? Nobody, that's _nobody_ goes around painted up on the Joker's streets, and lives to talk about it!"

"Well you'd think with a name like the _Joker,_ he'd have a sense of humour."

They both stare at me in disbelief.

But their tough act is no use now.

I saw in their body language, in the smaller one's verbal recovery, the power I had with this face, the power this man must wield over those lower than him in Gotham's food chain.

For an instant, they thought _I_ was the Joker, and it made all the difference.

The smaller man cracks an ugly smile.

"Shit, the Joker's gonna love you! You're crazy."

I let the Russian drag me to my feet. Suddenly my night's just gotten a lot more interesting.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **_ Just something random this time. I keep listening to Lady Gaga's 'Poker Face' and thinking what awesome poker faces Eric and the Joker would have. That kind of makeup would throw people off. _

_And yes, I know, I promised the Joker again, and didn't deliver. I gave some henchmen though, and Batman. Batman's cool, right?_

_There will be the Joker next time though. There's no getting out of it._

Love,

**Taluliaka**


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